One of Lincoln’s eyebrows lifted as he intently gazed at her, his eyes never leaving her. With a sigh, Sara opened the door and slid down from the cab, huddling in her coat and tucking her chin under the collar of it to keep as much cold away from her skin as she could. It didn’t help much.

Lincoln met her on the sidewalk, smiling, bumping her shoulder with his arm as they walked inside. Sara knew she was being paranoid, but she felt like everyone was watching her, like everyone knew what she was responsible for and they all hated her because of it. He was the only one she didn’t imagine looking at her like that and Sara’s eyes continued to drift to Lincoln because of it. He was her rock. That scared her, knowing she’d come to rely on him so much, because she knew that would change in weeks to come.

It smelled like pizza and coffee and doughnuts in the convenience store; an odd mixture that was somehow enticing all tossed in together as it was. They stood side by side, looking at the different kinds of coffee. Sara and Lincoln looked at each at the same time and when he smiled, she felt her lips turn up in response.

“They all sound terrible.”

“They probably all are terrible,” she murmured, eyes back on the coffee selection.

“Here goes,” he said, reaching for a cup and pouring ‘Jamaican Me Crazy’ into it.

Sara watched his face as he sipped it. Lincoln’s face went perfectly blank, revealing nothing. “Good?”

“Mmm-hmm,” was all he said, lifting his cup in a salute. He methodically raised the cup to his lips and took another drink.

She fought laughter and lost, surprising herself and Lincoln. He went still, blinking at her. Sara turned away as the laughter abruptly cut off, flustered. She fumbled with the coffee cups, knocking a stack of them over and onto the floor. When she reached down to pick them up, Lincoln was there with her, taking them from her shaking hands, and then taking her hands in his. Sara stared at their joined hands, not able to move. His hands were rougher and larger and tanner than hers. The nails were short and blunt, but clean. They were strong hands, hands that worked.

“You don’t have to feel bad for living, Sarah,” he said slowly.

She snatched her hands back, grabbing the cups off the floor and standing. Without looking at the kind it was, Sara quickly poured coffee into a cup. “I’m ready.”

It was a silent drive back to Boscobel. After a few sips of the bitter, stale coffee, Sara gave up on it and set it in the cup holder. Lincoln did the same.

“It really was horrible.”

Sara looked at his profile and saw that he was grinning. “Yes. It really was,” she said.

Lincoln pulled the truck up to the curb by the small white ranch-style house, putting the vehicle in park. He twisted his body so that he faced her, the bill of his cap hiding his eyes in the gloomy light. “We’re going to change some things, Sara.”

She stiffened, but didn’t respond.

“We’re going to do things we don’t want to do, we’re going to socialize, we’re even going to hang out together weekly. I know, once a week just isn’t enough. Fine. We’ll try to make it a couple times. We’re going to laugh and smile. We’re going to live. Understand?

“This is what Cole would want. He would freak out if he saw the way you’re living now. You know it too. This is stopping. Now. You can get mad at me and you can try to push me away, but guess what? I’m not going anywhere.”

Sara’s eyes filled with wetness. There was a lump in her throat that wouldn’t go away no matter how many times she swallowed. He was so nice now, but soon, he would hate her. Maybe she should just tell him and get it over with.

“Lincoln…” she began.

“I’m removing your free will from this subject. You have no say in this, Sara,” he said firmly, resituating his hat so that his face was partially shadowed.

Sara sucked in a sharp breath as she watched him fiddle with his cap until he had it just right. Lincoln did it just like him. She’d never noticed that before. It made sense. They’d grown up together, only two years apart in age. Of course Lincoln would have some of the same mannerisms as his brother.

“Sara? What is it?” Lincoln leaned closer, a frown on his face.

“Nothing.” She turned away, grabbing the door handle, and jumped down from the truck. It had begun to snow and her shoes slid on the cement.

Lincoln met her at the front of the truck, reaching for her arm. Sara jerked back, not wanting him to touch her. “What’s going on, Sara?”

“Nothing,” she muttered again, hurrying toward the house and away from Lincoln. Only he followed.

He grabbed her arm and swung her around, his eyes like stormy gray clouds. “You need to talk. You need to tell me what’s going on right now. Or I’m not leaving.” Lincoln’s hand dropped from her arm, but his eyes never left her face. Those were stronger than his hands would ever be; they had the power to hold her in place with their intensity. “You know…every time that phone rings and no one talks and I know it’s you, I get this pressure in my chest. Every time I hang up that phone knowing you’re on the other end of it, that pressure builds until it just…aches, Sara. I worry about you. I worry about you a lot. Talk to me.”

She stared at his unrelenting face, tripping over her words. “You just—you remind me of him, okay? Sometimes you do or say something just the way he would have. And it hurts. Being around you hurts sometimes.” Snowflakes fell harder, blanketing them in a layer of cold whiteness and wetting Sara’s face along with the warm tears that never really went away. They were always there, below the surface, waiting to be unleashed in all their sorrow and anguish.

Lincoln stared at her. His lips pressed together and Sara looked down, wrapping her arms around herself. She was so cold. Always so cold. As though he’d heard her thoughts, Lincoln pulled her to him and cocooned her against his chest, his arms warm and strong around her.

Sara stiffened; her first impulse to move away. She knew it would do no good; she knew he wouldn’t let her go. Sara inhaled a ragged breath, lowering her head as his heat seeped into her, finally warming her. For once, she wasn’t so cold. But it felt wrong. It shouldn’t be him holding her. Sara stepped back and Lincoln let her go.

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t even look at him. Sara kept her eyes lowered as she walked to the door, quietly opened it, and shut him out. She didn’t move away from the door until she heard the loud engine roar and the truck barrel down the street. Only then did she exhale. Only then was she able to get her legs to move.

***

“What are you thinking, Sara?”

She set the yellow fleece blanket on the dresser and turned. Lincoln stood in the doorway of the partially painted nursery, arms crossed, eyes directed at her. His hair was messy in a way only a hand repeatedly run through it could accomplish.

“Where’s Cole?”

“Outside. Where else? What are you thinking?” he repeated.

“Nothing. Why?”

Lincoln straightened. “Bull shit. You might be able to fool Cole because he’s too thick-headed to see the strain on your face, or he’s too deliriously happy to want to think you’re not the same, but I’m not like that. I see you, even when you don’t want anyone to. You’re pale. You’re not eating. Your eyes are red and you’re subdued. What gives? Are you not happy about the baby?”

Inhaling slowly, she said softly, “Of course I’m happy.” But her voice cracked and there was a tremble to it. “I’m pregnant. I’m supposed to be pale and not able to eat and whatever else you said.”

“Hormonal. That one I forgot.”

She gave him a look.

Lincoln flashed a quick grin before becoming serious again. “This is more than that.”